The essence of film, at its core, still carries a certain degree of educational and social influence—that's also why film censorship systems exist and have always existed. Of course, the standards of those censorship systems subtly shift with the times and the situation of society, and the way they change is often a very interesting topic in itself.
A movie like Carrie, for example, was undeniably well-made. However, since it dealt with sensitive topics like school bullying and ended with a bloody revenge, it could only be considered a rather niche, unconventional piece.
It wouldn't necessarily lose money, but it was hard to expect it to make a massive profit either. Still, Edward didn't mind at all—when he'd decided to make the movie, his real purpose had been to fulfill Little Luna's wish in the first place.
And truth be told, Little Luna's performance had been quite good. Because of her, Edward's relationship with Boss Gengar had also improved considerably. After all, as long as Gengar still hoped for Little Luna to star in films in the future, it would more or less need Edward to pull some strings.
Besides, Gengar was indeed quite capable. Having it help Little Luna with her acting was one thing, but Edward also had another motive by doing so, he could make Gengar owe him a few favors, and when the time came, it would naturally be easier to ask for its help later.
So, once the box office for Batman: The Dark Knight stopped rising, Ghost Films released a trailer for Carrie. This trailer, however, revealed very little—most of its footage focused on Carrie's family and identity, with only brief hints that she was a Ralts possessing powerful psychic abilities.
Ghost Films' high productivity soon caught people's attention. But once they discovered that this time Edward had only written the script without directing it himself, the market's reaction cooled significantly.
After all, a movie directed by Edward himself was one thing, and a movie merely written by him was quite another—even though Edward had already proven, with Batman, that his own scripts could also be exceptional.
Nevertheless, because of Edward's growing reputation and Ghost Films' excellent track record in recent times, most moviegoers were still interested enough to plan on watching it. Another simple reason was that, during that period, there really weren't any other good films showing—so naturally, people chose Edward's movie.
After all, when they opened a movie ticketing app, the rest of the films just looked dull and uninspiring, giving them no motivation to watch anything else. Thus, going to see Carrie became the natural choice.
Of course, part of that also had to do with another film that had, frankly speaking, brought disaster upon itself.
At that moment, Edward was sitting in a theater, watching one of the newly released movies—Captain Lighthouse 4.
Just from the title, it was clear that the Captain Lighthouse series already had several prior installments. The earlier films had always been led by the same actor. However, with the release of Captain Lighthouse 4, that actor had officially retired and passed his symbolic shield to another person, creating the premise for this new chapter.
The reason Edward came to watch it was that Captain Lighthouse was one of the few truly special film series in this world—somewhat similar to a "superhero movie," yet without much actual superpowers. The Captain himself was more like a morally upright paragon of virtue, whose body had merely been enhanced to the limits of human capability.
When he finally walked out of the theater, his expression was blank with disbelief. Captain Lighthouse 4 was… truly unique. So unique that Edward didn't even know how to describe it. To call it bad felt inaccurate—it wasn't even entertainingly bad like Sharknado.
At least Sharknado had creativity; it was so bad it was fun. But this film? It was simply inconsistent with its predecessors, making it neither fun nor coherent. This is was like female Iron Man mocking the older Iron Man in his past life.
"This stupid Captain Lighthouse 4—anyone who watches it is just asking to suffer. I should've waited for it to hit streaming." Edward shook his head regretfully. If he'd known it would be this kind of garbage, he would've never wasted money on a ticket.
This was practically funding the enemy because if studios realized that they could still milk fan money by releasing trash like this, they'd have even less incentive to produce quality films. The more he thought about it, the more he regretted it.
"Yaaawn…" Little Q yawned weakly from Edward's arms. The movie had literally bored it to sleep. Considering how Q had watched movies with Edward since it was young and had never fallen asleep before—this was a historical first.
Back at his company, Edward decided to check on the progress of another film's production to lift his spirits. With that goal in mind, he headed over to the Sharknado film crew, who were currently busy with intensive shooting. The project had many special-effects scenes—most of them cheap and cheesy—but hey, effects were effects.
Because of that, Pokémon were often needed on set to cooperate during filming. Luckily, Edward had given the team a generous budget; otherwise, they probably wouldn't have been able to finish shooting. After watching a bit, Edward left the set—the script of Sharknado was one he'd read before, though it had been… modified somewhat.
The original Sharknado 1 was an iconic sci-fi horror B-movie, famous for its bizarre absurdity and shamelessly low-budget style that somehow captured a cult following.
The story was set in Los Angeles.
One day, an incredibly powerful super-tornado struck the city's west coast. The storm unleashed catastrophic destruction—tearing apart buildings and hurling debris through the air like a monstrous beast venting its rage, plunging L.A. into chaos and terror.
At first, it all seemed like a typical disaster film setup. But the screenwriter's imagination went completely off the rails.
The tornado's suction power was so strong that it didn't just rip apart the city—it sucked up sharks from the ocean, dragging them into the sky.
By all laws of physics, those sharks should've been smashed to death upon impact. Yet, in the screenwriter's "creative" logic, the sharks survived and began "swimming" through the air above Los Angeles, attacking people at random.
That absurdly grotesque concept formed the core of the movie—flying, man-eating sharks raining down upon the city.
The protagonist, Finn, an expert in meteorological phenomena, quickly realized the unusual nature of this storm and sprang into action as panic swept the streets.
Like most American movies, it followed the formula of family drama combined with personal heroism—a staple of their early cinema—and Sharknado was no exception.
Finn was a divorced man with a complicated relationship with his ex-wife and children—a ridiculously overused setup found in nearly all of those films.
Determined to save his family, Finn led them in search of shelter. Along the way, they drove through flooded streets, where sharks swam freely in the water, attacking their car as it struggled through the slippery roads. In a flooded tunnel, they faced another wave of attacks. Despite the danger, Finn risked his life to go back and save others, showing courage and growth.
Later, his family joined him in escaping the catastrophe, only to find temporary safety in a school building—until a more terrifying "triple shark tornado" appeared.
When all seemed lost, they discovered an aircraft, and Finn's son Matt and a woman named Nova decided to fly it, planning to drop bombs into the tornadoes to stop them.
At this point, any meteorologist or physicist would probably be rolling in their graves.
Meanwhile, another character, Baz, built his own bomb and drove straight into one of the tornadoes, sacrificing himself to destroy it. Despite the chaos, Matt and Nova managed to neutralize two of the shark storms.
However, the third was still too powerful. Their plane was struck down, Nova was swallowed by a shark, and Matt was left stranded after the crash.
Even then, Finn refused to give up. He drove headfirst into the storm, delivering the final bomb himself and ending the last sharknado.
In the end, he saved Los Angeles—though he was swallowed by a shark in the process. Miraculously, he survived by cutting his way out of the same shark that had eaten him, reuniting with his daughter as one of the few survivors.
That was the originalSharknado. But in Edward's version, given the existence of Pokémon, the sharks had become Sharpedos—making the tornado far deadlier.
Of course, humanity also had some defensive means in this world. But the deranged screenwriter Percival had decided to add a cruel twist: during the Sharpedo storm, the immense magnetic energy disabled almost all Poké Balls, leaving people powerless to fight back.
Naturally, the male lead still had two Pokémon—both loyal companions who appeared to sacrifice themselves protecting him. But Edward could easily tell that this was just a setup—a convenient "death" scene to create a future resurrection opportunity.
In most films, whether it's an important character or a small but popular one, true death is rarely permanent.
Writers often design a "they definitely died" moment—only to resurrect them later when convenient, claiming it was all a ruse.
Just like that famous "The Rock" movies Edward had watched before he transmigrated—the supposed "final chapter" turned out to just be the first half of the finale, and all those side characters who "died" clearly weren't gone for good. In the next film, they'd no doubt jump back in at a crucial moment, offering help with some half-baked explanation of how they'd survived.
Even when a writer explicitly says a character is dead, that doesn't mean anything. If the sequel needs them, the screenwriter can always whip up something—fake death, clone, doppelganger, secret conspiracy—you name it.
So whether someone in a film is truly dead or not is a profoundly mysterious, almost metaphysical concept. Sometimes it's not even up to the writer—it depends on what the audience wants. If the fans demand it strongly enough, then under the mighty pressure of the investors' wallets, even the writer has no choice but to rewrite the script obediently.
"Edward."
A familiar voice called out. Edward turned, startled—and saw his father standing behind him. The old man's eyes were weary, his body supported by someone else. A pang of worry immediately filled Edward's chest.
When a person grows older, aside from work and family, their greatest fear is their parents' health. After all, as one ages, so do they—and in the face of time's merciless blade, the day of parting will inevitably come. It is the inescapable fate awaiting everyone.
"Dad, what's wrong?!" Edward rushed forward, visible anxiety written across his face.
"Edward, sir," said Kennedy quietly, "Chairman Joseph's health has been overstrained, and with the flu outbreak spreading recently…"
He didn't finish, but Edward understood perfectly well what he meant.
Thus, in order to let his father rest and recover properly, Edward unhesitatingly took on the position of chairman of the Devon Corporation.
(End of Chapter)